ex-boyfriends

we go to the stranger depot
to talk to new sets of hands.
you say, "that one looks
like my ex." you pull out
a picture & it's true, he does.
only, the stranger has a sign 
taped to his chest
that says, "for sale"
but not in a sex work way
more like in a "i will do anything
for someone to write
a poem about me"
kind of way. i guess you could
consider that romance work.
we avoid him but soon
everyone has his face. that is
the trouble with going places
like this where everyone is no one
& no one is everyone. 
you say, "we should have
drowned." i tell you i much prefer
the idea of being consumed
by the sun. we argue about death
a lot. you like the drama & 
i guess i do too. the trouble
with loving anyone is that 
you are also always in mourning. 
the you before they set up
shop inside your lung. the eventual
parting. one of you buried 
in a tomb of green & the other
walking around with a metal detector
trying to locate a god. 
we leave empty handed.
you tell me, "i want to go back.
maybe it was him."
i keep driving for your own good.
i try to remind you,
"there was that night he ate your face
& we had to tape it all back 
together." you shake your head.
"that wasn't him," you say
even though it was.